


The Last Bachelor's Eve

by Jackvbriefs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attorney!Draco, Banter, Being In Your Thirties, But With A Cool Party Name, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Draco Likes Harry's Hands, Drarry, Drinking, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Gift Exchange, Gift Giving, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Mild Michael Corner Cringe, Oblivious Harry Potter (past), Overthinking, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Pining, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28879401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackvbriefs/pseuds/Jackvbriefs
Summary: Pansy picked up the package and gave it a shake. “Please tell me you got him something outrageous, like personalized bed sheets that say ‘The Next Mr. Malfoy.’”Draco glared at her and welcomed the arrival of his drink. “A scarf, actually.”“Let me guess: is it a lovely emerald green?”“No.” It wasforestgreen. Totally different. “But it is a lovely colour,” he said, tugging the gift out of her reach. She was going to crunch the paper.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 194
Collections: H/D Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	The Last Bachelor's Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withgreatelan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withgreatelan/gifts).



> For the wonderful Elan, you are always a favorite to see and speak with around the server, thank you for being so great! I hope you enjoy this piece you inspired!
> 
> So many thanks to T, who turned this story around, and J, who had the loveliest eye and ear for refinements--betas make the world go around and definitely helped this piece come to life!

Draco took care as he twisted the stem of his glass. His dirty martini remained mostly untouched and cloudy from the brine. He’d eaten the olive garnish first—stuffed with blue cheese, the perfect amount of tang—only to take a drink and remember that actually, vodka was terrible. 

Pansy was to blame. If she weren’t running late, she would have been there to remind him that while it was fun to _order_ a ‘dirty martini,’ it was not fun to drink it. Also, he shouldn’t eat so many of those crab legs from the seafood platter, it would make him ill, and Merlin, what was wrong with him today? 

“The weather,” he would have told her. A reasonable response, given the icy sleet covering most of London’s pavement, but not his best lie.

Years ago, she’d have called him on it, burning after the War with the conviction she’d never again let him pass things off as ‘fine’ when they were going to shit. Now, she’d have nodded, taken a seat, and dug into the platter herself. It was 2010, after all. They were thirty. Lots of things were going to shit. 

Except she was late. 

So instead, he’d been sitting there alone for a good thirty minutes with his cloudy, terrible drink, eating too much seafood and counting the string lights over the bar instead of acknowledging that maybe, some small part of it could have been that at the time he’d ordered, he'd wanted to focus on something fun, anything at all really, rather than the tightening grip of anxiety that had been growing beneath his ribcage since he sat down. Like the sinking despair he’d filled with inching up to the peak of a roller coaster he rode once with Hermione for a Ministry-sponsored Muggle Education Outing. “It’s always worse before the drop,” she’d said. 

He glanced again at the restaurant entrance. The angle wasn’t ideal from his cordoned off spot at the far end of the bar. He could just make out the door through the gaps in the liquor shelves. He needed to be diligent if he wanted time to brace for Harry’s arrival. 

Pansy was not the only one who was late. The sinking feeling deepened.

A dark haired figure stepped through the door. Draco leaned to get a better look, grip tightening on the edge of the bar. Pansy Parkinson strode through the entrance and made her way over to him. 

He spoke first: “Thirty-seven minutes. That’s how late you are.”

She threw her purse on the nearest barstool. “Zero. That's how much I care.” She looked over the platter and array of hors d'oeuvres, the people pressing in against their few reserved seats. “Where’s Pots? Don’t tell me he bailed when he heard about everyone else.” 

A tight grin flashed, then disappeared from his face. “He said he’d be here.” He made no mention of the chances he'd had (and failed) to tell Harry about the various last-minute cancellations. It didn't merit comment. In fact, nothing about the last time he saw Harry did. Draco was just going to put those memories in a box and seal it tight and bury it deep among the other realities one harbours but cannot face. Like his slowing metabolism. Or global warming. 

Pansy paused in the middle of removing her coat to stare at him. The moment passed, and she shrugged the coat off entirely. “Well, he’s very late.” When she picked up a shrimp from the display, it drooped in her hand. “So, this is what it’s down to, then? Wasn’t so long ago Bachelor’s Eve was so stuffed with single men we’d have half the bar to ourselves.” She ate the shrimp after one more dubious look. “What did we start with, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-nine.” He rubbed his eyes. He always remembered the people that had stayed once he arrived, in those early years. "We were down to eight last year. It’s not impossible for five of those people to be dating someone a year later. Even if one of them is Michael Corner.” They cringed simultaneously. “Six! Shouldn’t I include you as well? Or are you still in the shagging phase?" 

She tossed her hair back, shrugging just so, as if her sex life were some sort of mystery between them instead of the aperitif for every weekly lunch. "Maybe. But I wasn’t going to turn down a little more time with you, was I?” She filled her plate with water biscuits and cheese. “Where would you be, if we had cancelled, anyway? Stuck alone in that twee little office of yours?” 

Draco’s mouth pinched at the edges. "My office is not 'twee.'" The _nerve_. His office was as charming as he was. He took some of the biscuits from her plate when his cutting look had no clear effect. She raised her eyebrows at that, but said nothing.

“Have you even seen what can pass for a solicitor’s office downtown?” he said. “At least mine’s not a converted living room or a former beans factory or some other nonsense: it was built to be a workplace.” 

“For a bookstore, maybe. Or one of those cozy hipster coffee shops that are springing up all over New York.” Pansy adjusted her tie, pulling it down until she could undo the collar and top button of her shirt. “Whatever your place was zoned for, it’s still twee. And Charlotte agrees with me.” 

"Why do you know what my trainee thinks about my office?" At her knowing smile, Draco ignored her for the entrance way. The wreath above it looked sparse this year, more twig than brush. Had they replaced the one Dean had accidentally set on fire the year before? Still looked better than the curtains nearby, though, which never quite recovered from the time Finnegan chundered on them on Bachelor’s Eve 2005. Or the carpet, with stains dating back to the first Bachelor’s Eve and fluids they’d all sworn never to speak of again. 

The St. Clair had hosted every Bachelor’s Eve since the beginning, the high ceilings and perpetually drunk clientele providing cover for their interhouse mix of post-War revelry, the unguilty celebration of a bunch of twenty-somethings being unwed and untied and young and alive. Until person by person, the members of their group settled down and stayed home, leaving only Draco and Harry now. And Pansy, “maybe,” whatever that was supposed to mean. 

Though Draco might be a “maybe” himself, assuming he hadn’t misread last week entirely. Except he probably _had_ misread it. Gotten ahead of himself. No, he wouldn’t bother with it now. Better to just… wait and see. If Harry ever actually showed up. 

“Well, Harry likes my office,” he said, pivoting to the more welcoming thought of the warm look on Harry’s face the first time he’d stopped by Draco’s shop to look around. The way his rough fingers had trailed over the dark leather furniture in the reception area, the trusts and estates periodicals laid out, before he settled into Draco’s chair (cheeky bastard) to sign up as a client. 

Pansy’s eyes, darkened at the edges with kohl, narrowed at him. “Of course he does.” 

Shite.

“As do my other clients,” he added, frown drawing deeper. Not good.

Pansy’s sharp laugh echoed, and she gestured to the bartender. At his inquiry, Draco conceded that yes, mistakes had been made, and the martini should go. This time, he ordered champagne.

Pansy was looking at him again. Her steely gaze always had a certain weight to it. He flicked at the shining edges of the gold wrapped gift on the bartop. The wood had been polished so smooth, the box made several rotations before it stilled again, moving slightly toward her. A distraction.

Pansy tapped a sparkling white fingernail on the wrapped gift. As she did, he could just make out the little skull and crossbones painted on it in a pale gray. “So, what did you get him?” 

He sat back and smoothed his jacket. Didn’t have to lie about this one. “Nothing special.” 

“Unlikely.”

“Truly. I didn’t even pick it out myself. A salesperson at Harrods did.” A young salesperson who had watched Draco wander to and from the second floor over and over for at least half a day selecting and rejecting all manner of gifts, before said salesperson finally took pity on him and intervened. As if Draco was supposed to know what to give Harry _now_. Clothes seemed far too presumptuous (no matter how much Harry could use an upgrade—or how badly Draco wanted to dress him). Towels fostered inappropriate fantasies of Harry using them (always after a steamy, thorough shower, and for only a moment before being discarded in favor of a romp). Soft pyjamas led to more inappropriate fantasies (like Draco taking the pair off him with his teeth). Draco’d eventually left the mortal plane around the men’s “essentials” section. Faced with a display of silken pants, he achieved, as the Muggles say, nirvana. At least until the salesperson approached him with more reasonable options.

Pansy picked up the package and gave it a shake. “Please tell me you got him something outrageous, like personalized bed sheets that say ‘The Next Mr. Malfoy.’” 

Draco glared at her and welcomed the arrival of his drink. “A scarf, actually.” 

“Let me guess: is it a lovely emerald green?” 

“No.” It was _forest_ green. Totally different. “But it is a lovely colour,” he said, tugging the gift out of her reach. She was going to crunch the paper. 

Pansy relented in favor of throwing back the two shots she’d ordered. “I’m sure it is,” she said, setting each glass down with a bang. “I’m sorry I’ll miss his face when he opens it.” She stood and started to gather her coat. 

“Wait, Pans.” Draco stood as well, cornering her between the bar and their chairs. None of the several scenarios he’d hypothesized for the evening accounted for her absence. The pit in his chest nearly gutted him as it returned in full force. “You’re not leaving. You can’t.” 

“I most certainly can. And I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you’d be a boor about it, but I actually have other plans this evening. I’d hoped you’d be too distracted with Pots to notice. Some Saviour he is.” She shrugged on her peacoat and pulled the edges of her bob out where it caught in her collar. “Now get out of my way, or I’ll be forced to beat you in front of all these people.” 

“I’m stronger than you are.” 

“Yes, but I’m a better cheat.” 

She was right. Different tactics were required. “Pansy, please. You can’t leave me alone with him. Not entirely. Just… stay until he arrives at least. And maybe a minute longer."

She paused, eyeing him. “What are you going on about? The two of you are together all the time. Didn’t you just go to Paris?” 

“That’s different, he can’t speak the language, I had to go.” 

“What about Dublin?” 

“He can’t speak English that well either.” 

“Amsterdam, then.” 

“Someone had to supervise him. We both know how reckless he is when he’s _sober_ , nevermind done under."

She leaned back against the bar. “I see.” Oh, he certainly hoped she didn’t. “So what happened, you finally shag him?” 

He closed his eyes against the torturous images her question conjured. Only that made it easier to envision the dimples in Harry’s lower back, the things Harry would whimper (and in what breathless tones). Draco forced his eyes open wide. “No. And bad guess.” 

“Then what is your problem, I thought you were friends? And blink soon, please, I can’t describe what that does to your face, but it is stupid.” 

“We are friends. Great friends. But that was before–” He stopped. 

Pansy didn’t fully return to her seat, but she did rest her hip against the end of the bar stool. “Go on. Before what?” 

Telling her opened the box. Breathed life into the very things he’d keep at a distance. But the clock over her shoulder made clear that Harry was now almost an hour late. He might not show at all. And suffering, like wine, was better shared with friends. He’d already spent the past week in half a state of disbelief; that was admirable enough, and outside perspective could be helpful. He straightened his posture.

“Before…” How to put it? The pressure of a knee against his own beneath a table. The weight of a stare over his form. A hug that lingered longer than usual. 

Merlin, it sounded like a Regency romance. He settled on a mumbled “before last week” and drank the rest of his champagne. 

Pansy blinked. “What was last week?” 

“It doesn’t matter. It would go against the Quota, anyway." 

“Not your Quota thing again, I thought we were past that.” 

“Whatever you think of my theory, Pans, we must agree to disagree. Having Harry’s friendship is already more than I deserve.”

She scowled. “Yes, I can see how Draco Malfoy riding the Chosen Dong would blow the Earth’s natural alignment or whatever, launching us all into the moon.” She stood at his sigh, ignoring the few eyes her heated statement garnered. “Well, if that is all, I am actually leaving you. I’m meeting Charlotte shortly, and I’m already late because I’ve indulged you enough as it is.” 

“Why are you—my _trainee_ is the girl you've been shagging?” 

“Please.” Pansy reached out to adjust Draco’s tie and fringe. "I prefer to call it artful ravishing. Full of youthful vigour that one. Don’t frown like that, darling, you’ll get wrinkles, and then you won’t be alone just because you’re a wilfully blind arse.” 

Draco pulled away from her fussing, hitting his back against the bar. “I can’t believe you, I have to work with her, and how am I supposed to do that now? And if Harry ever shows up, I reserve every right to toss his gift for you into the Thames.” 

“You’ll do no such thing.” 

Draco stilled at the caress of that familiar baritone. They both turned to see Harry standing beside them with several gift bags in hand, snow gathered in his dark mop of hair. Harry extended his right hand to Pansy. The outermost bag said _Agent Provocateur_ in a looping script along the side. 

“Sorry, Parks, I meant to get it wrapped, but I was in a bit of a rush to get here. It was Charlotte’s idea.” He pushed his glasses up. They were terribly smudged, and the warmth of the restaurant had caused them to fog. Draco pressed his hands into his pockets. If he didn’t, they risked doing something reckless, like tracing the flush of cold along Harry’s cheeks and nose. 

“Where is everyone? I thought I was late.” 

Pansy smiled. “Much obliged, Pots. Just for that, I’ll be sure to correct Charlotte: you’re not nearly as yuppie-looking these days as she said.” She kissed the air beside his cheek, took the bag, and disappeared around the bar, the sweetness of her perfume trailing in her wake. 

Draco waited until she fully disappeared. “Why is everyone closer to my trainee than I am?”

Harry fought to arrange his bags on the floor. “Because you’re a grumpy sod when you’re working. I remember stopping by ‘Mione’s office at the wrong time, back in the day. And what's a yuppie?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, of course I was grumpy _then_ , I worked for the government. Involuntarily.” Better than Azkaban, but still. “And I think it’s some kind of fish.”

“It wasn’t a punishment the whole time. You only had to stay the first three years. But back to my real question, where the hell is everyone?” He pulled back his jacket sleeve to look at his watch. “Bachelor’s Eve started over an hour ago."

“Ah, yes.” So he’d known he was late. Draco took his time getting settled back into his chair. Rolled his shoulders. Straightened the bow on the gift box. “This is it, actually.” He watched Harry’s face in the mirror above the bar.

“This is what?” 

Draco settled his arms in front of him so he could interlace his fingers. “This is it. Bachelor’s Eve.” Draco cleared his throat. “Just the two of us left.” 

Harry turned to him, green eyes visible now and piercing the sizable region of Draco’s chest that he’d occupied for days. “Oh.”

Draco shifted under the scrutiny. “Indeed.” 

Harry leaned on the back of Pansy’s former chair and took in what remained of the food spread. The suit he wore showed of much better quality than usual. Draco’s fingers still tingled with the urge to fix Harry’s tie. 

"So you waited just for me?"

At the lilting tone, Draco swallowed. "Obviously not. I expected Pansy as well."

Harry's legs spread wider, bumping their knees. "Sure. But you were going to stay, if she left."

Draco huffed at his nerves and that damn confidence of Harry’s, reaching for a water biscuit. "Only to tell you off."

Harry lifted his chin. "I'm sure." He took a biscuit as well and cocked his head. “Does Charlotte really think I dress like a yuppie?” 

“Please, I’m the intimidating arse at work, why would she tell me?” 

“She gives her opinions pretty freely.”

“So it seems.” Draco futzed with his empty glass. “It’s going to make her a terrible solicitor. She’ll be nothing if she doesn’t build up some discretion.” 

“Shoring up property and things for people is as mysterious as all that?” 

Draco’s brows rose. “Have you never read a murder mystery? People are always offing relatives to get their inheritance early. Or at least threatening bodily harm until the will changes.” 

“And your clients are that exciting, then?” 

“I keep everyone’s secrets except yours, Potter, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted. Though the many properties you are inexplicably gifted from dying members of our society… is noteworthy, to say the least.” 

The tightness in his stomach warmed at Harry’s expression. “As it should be," Harry said, his voice going lower as he shifted closer. "So... is this for me?” Harry snatched up the gold wrapped gift. Draco got a hand on it, but Harry was too fast and had already started to pull it into his chest.

“Will you gents be ordering any drinks?” The bartender leaned forward on the bar in front of them. Harry pulled back. 

“I’m not sure.” He shifted his weight, moving the box between his hands. “To be honest, I’m not feeling especially up for all the celebrations tonight. I think I wore myself out fighting the crowds.” 

The lightness in Draco’s chest faded. Of course. Bachelor’s Eve was meant for a raucous gathering of unattached celebrating in a stupor of booze, not two blokes sharing a dinner and drinks like it was a date or something. This, Draco, _this_ was why you should know better than to get your hopes up—

“—I thought maybe we could just go to mine? Or yours? You’ve mentioned your place is close to here, haven’t you?” 

Draco nodded. He had mentioned it the year before; a few rounds of salted caramel martinis gave him the recklessness to be more available in front of Harry. Or at least, to try again when his attempts in years prior had failed. But Harry had again seemed uninterested at the time—had not been paying much attention at all, in the midst of an arm wrestle with Blaise (Harry lost horribly)—so the resurrection of the information now, well: it was surprising. 

“You want to go to mine?” 

Harry nodded back. His smile turned his mouth just so, the way it did when he was thinking. Draco’d seen it last week, at the end of the night. When Harry, almost as close he was now, had spoken into the limited air between that he had only just realized Draco had some height on him. 

“It’s okay being here when there’s a crowd of us, but honestly? I feel like I’m getting a bit old for this. Like—” He gave the bartender a bright smile until he wandered off, then he pressed back into Draco’s space. “—why am I paying so much for a drink I could make for a quarter of the price at home, where no one could see any of the embarrassing things it leads me to do?” 

Draco stared very deliberately at the space between Harry’s eyes. Looking anywhere else risked total annihilation. “Except for me. I would be there to witness it.” 

And Harry, his eyes practically glowing, traced down Draco’s face and back again with his gaze. “Yes, well, you’re very discreet aren’t you?” 

Draco swallowed. He had said Harry was the exception on that point, but they’d both known he was lying. The small laugh that Harry huffed felt private, shared. 

Draco inclined his head. “More than Charlotte, at least.” 

*** 

“This is your place?” Harry’s head tilted back so far Draco wondered how he didn’t slip on the pavement, well and truly covered as it was in a layer of snow. Maybe the bags held him down. 

The house sat at the end of a lane, narrow but tall, stretching up four stories in a white painted brick with purple shutters. Draco unlocked the gate.

“Not all of it. Sharon, the owner, lives on the first two floors. The third is rented to a pair of uni students. I’ve got the top.” He waited for Harry to pass through the gate, then locked it behind them and led him through the dead garden plants to the entrance and up the stairs. 

“What’s she like? The owner.” 

"Mm, she’s older. Kids long grown, husband dead. Watch out for that step.” 

The wooden stairs had faded centers, worn from years of trodding feet stripping the varnish. As they passed the breakaway to the third floor, a television blared loudly. It faded once they reached the stoop of Draco’s place. In the quiet, only the sound of their breaths and Harry’s rustling bags, it took Draco two tries to get the door. 

“I think she likes having young people around. I took the place because it was the closest to the law library. And I’ve meant to move since I got the shop started, but just, haven’t bothered I suppose.” 

The door creaked a little as he opened it. Harry passed him by, his head moving as he took in the room at an easy pace. The entrance opened into the cacophony of a room that was his study area, sitting room, and library all in one. Three-quarters of the walls were inlaid bookshelves full to bursting; that architectural feature alone had made him sign the lease. The rest of the wooden walls, the haphazard collection of furniture built for comfort more than appearance, were just necessities. 

And there Harry stood, among Draco’s things. Only when Harry set his bags down did Draco remember to close the door. 

Harry circled the furniture, arms swinging with his steps. “Moving is a big change.” He unbuttoned his jacket, and Draco followed the inches of skin that appeared. “I’ve been telling myself I’d move out of old Grimm for almost a decade, but who knows now? Thought turning thirty would cause some kind of panic or epiphany, but here we are.” 

Draco smiled back when their eyes met, a feat given his beating heart. “Here we are.” 

Slowly, Harry’s eyebrows rose. Draco extended a hand, remembering his manners. “You can take a seat.” He spelled the fireplace to light. It glowed a soft blue, shining off the decorative orange tiles that surrounded the hearth. “I’ll get us some glasses.”

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, Draco pressed his head to the cupboard door. Bringing Harry here had been a terrible mistake, and Malfoys were no longer Making Mistakes. He had vowed it so, after his trial. Both mistakes and the Malfoy line would end with him. 

They’d mingled for years in numerous homes: the Granger-Weasleys’s cottage, Pansy’s penthouse, Dean’s flat above his art studio. Harry visited Draco’s office, of course, but even there, Draco always had the formality of his large desk and paperwork, some trainee or another flittering about with his cantankerous secretary Berta near the entrance. For his convincing self-talk that he and Harry could only ever be friends, that at some point, his interest in him would just go away, he’d always had the sense to recognize that there would be no moving on from having Harry in his home. That once he’d touched Draco’s things, been seen on Draco’s furniture, he’d linger there. And now, with almost no effort to stop it, they were drinking together on Christmas Eve and stamping over the sole barrier Draco had maintained all these years. 

Stupid. 

He brought down half a set for tea before recalling what he’d come to the kitchen for and switched to a pair of tumblers. He stepped over to the pantry as well and took out some of the Chelsea buns he’d ordered for the next day’s Christmas lunch. If he got up early enough, he could probably salvage together another tray or two. And if they all had to overdo it on mimosas instead, the group would manage. 

Draco paused, tray in hand as he stepped through the entrance. Harry had dressed down to his navy blue button up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His suit jacket curled over the armchair Draco usually worked in, and its edges brushed the tops of the paperwork piles Draco’d left there. Harry had his back to the kitchen as his attention switched across the moving photos dispersed on the book shelves. Draco’d just added some from their trip to Paris. 

The image—Harry Potter, his hands in his pockets, hair still slightly damp from the cold and clinging in dark curls to his skin—there’d be no forgetting now. Draco looked down at the baked goods and tumblers. The recipe for romance, to be sure. Fuck.

“Is that a Chelsea bun? I’d love some.” Draco blinked up at Harry’s hand reaching to the plate. At some point in Draco’s mini-crisis, Harry had crossed the room to him. After biting into one and holding it between his teeth, Harry took the tray from Draco’s hand. “Drinks,” he asked, settling into the middle of Draco’s couch.

Draco nodded eventually, steps taking him to the drink cart in the corner. “Certainly.” He shook himself back to the present. “And do make yourself at home.” At the suggestion, Harry winked and stretched wide, sliding an arm around the back of the couch. 

“I’ve got a decent bottle of firewhiskey we could share.” Draco shifted some of the bottles around. “Or some elf wine if you want something lighter.” 

“Whatever packs more punch,” Harry said, wiping his mouth with his hand. Disgusted—Draco should be disgusted, not amused. “It’s about quality more than quantity nowadays.” 

“Is that code for, ‘I’m getting old’?” 

“I was going for sophisticated,” Harry said, tracking Draco’s steps around the couch. Draco glanced at him, then the space on either side of the couch, before opting for the farthest corner. He could still be misunderstanding things. Assumptions should not be made, no matter how badly he wanted to make them.

“But you’ve gotten so far being an impolitic scamp.” Draco poured them each a few fingers of firewhiskey. “Why stop now?” 

If the tease landed, Harry’s face didn’t show it. “Just some advice,” he said, almost to himself. “From a friend.” 

Draco turned to him, intrigued, but Harry’s face had disappeared behind a deep drink from his glass. 

“Well, speaking of sophisticated,” Draco said, summoning the gold wrapped package. “Your gift.” 

Harry took it and summoned over one of his bags as well. Draco pulled it from the air. The weight settled into his palms as the spell lifted. Much heavier than his gift to Harry.

“Before you open yours, I have to say that it’s from me _and_ Hermione, so I can’t take all the credit if you like it. Or hate it, I s’pose.” 

“I’ll be sure to allocate blame accordingly.” Draco let the gift sit in his lap, watching Harry tear away the wrapping paper and set aside the box lid with care. Their eyes met for a moment, the edges of Harry’s crinkling some with amusement. 

“No card?” 

“What would I say? ‘Happy Christmas, you git’? Much more satisfying in person.” 

Harry shook his head and pulled back the edges of the tissue paper. He shifted in his seat when the green cashmere came into view and thumbed the light fabric between his fingers. Draco sucked the inner side of his lower lip between his teeth to keep himself in place.

“I think this fabric is nicer than anything I own. I’m supposed to wear it around my neck?” Harry pulled it out and stretched his arms wide to dangle it this way, then another. “Or do I cross it over like a shawl?” 

“You’re only saying that to annoy me, and let me tell you, it’s working. ‘Like a shawl,’ honestly.” He reached over to wrap it properly once, twice, around Harry’s neck. His hands hung on the edges. Harry’s eyes glowed, now, against the colour. Disaster. 

Draco gave it a final tug before sitting back. “You’ve been seeing Aunt Andromeda too much.”

“I’m not sure she’d agree with you, but I’ll tell her you think so. And thank you.” Harry folded it back into the box and set it aside. “Now open yours.” 

Draco pulled a large box from the bag. He had to widen his knees to keep it from slipping off. “I see. I’m supposed to give you a card, when you didn’t even wrap my gift?” 

Harry laughed—the brilliant one that arched his neck and rang deep between his broad shoulders—and Draco was glad for it. Otherwise, his slightly shaky hands would give him away as he lifted off the box top. 

“I was already running late! And then Parks would have left, and you’d have been all alone before I arrived.” 

_Alone again, you mean._ Draco tossed the thought aside. “And it would have been worth it, because I could guilt you for that _and_ the unwrapped gift, and I wouldn’t be paying for a single drink all night.” 

Harry brushed some of his fringe back, a lazy smile on his face. "Going for broke, then?"

Draco followed the movements of Harry's sturdy hands. “If it's all worth having.” 

The lazy smile on Harry's face grew wider. “Come on then, open it up. If I’d known I was going to get all these theatrics, I’d have brought you an Olivier Award instead. Is that something people look for in a solicitor as well as discretion? Drama?” 

“Only—” Draco paused at the sight of the pale blue bag and the small, black block print. SMYTHSON. 

“See?” Harry poked at the bag. “It’s wrapped.” 

Draco scoffed. “That’s purely a technicality.” 

“Alright. Technically, I wrapped your gift. Still counts.” 

Draco shook his head, but the faux-dour expression fell away when he pulled it free of the box by its handles. The briefcase was large and leather, but a soft kind, flexible—nothing like the hard-covered, boxy ones he saw the blokes in The City of London using. The accents were gold, but the leather itself shone a soft robin’s egg blue. The brand name appeared discreetly on the gold clasp that held the front pocket closed. His fingers caught on the leather tag hanging off the handle nearest the zipper. And there it was: 

_Draco Malfoy, Solicitor_

Harry nudged him with his foot. “Silence is, er, good, right? Talking is what you do for a living?” 

Draco’s thumb ran back and forth over his name. When the question reached him through his haze, he nodded. “They got my name wrong.” 

“They did not! Oh, I’ll be so upset, especially when they wouldn’t let me put ‘Posh Git, Extraordinaire.’” The distance between them disappeared as Harry crowded beside him, grasping Draco’s hand to pull it back away from the tag. 

This close, Harry smelled fresh, like the woods, the pine trees at the edge of the Manor’s grounds. 

“You tosser, there’s no typo, I can’t believe you!" He flashed his eyes up at Draco and made to pull the bag away, but Draco moved faster this time. 

“No! You can’t take it back, this is my lovely gift.” 

Harry stopped struggling, the curl in his mouth softening from its mild irritation into some kind of frustrated amusement. Draco could feel the warmth of Harry’s hand where it settled near Draco’s ribs. If he took a big enough breath, he could press back against it. Seek it.

“You think my gift is lovely?" Harry asked. Draco looked over his face, the openness there the same combination of enticing and torturous as ever. 

“I think whatever half of it came from Hermione is.” 

Harry fully smiled now. “I’ll let her know.” 

When Harry didn’t move, Draco pulled the gift tighter to his chest, forcing Harry a few inches closer. For the tiniest of moments, Draco allowed himself a glance at Harry’s mouth, the source of so much teasing and fantasy. The smell of Harry’s cologne surrounded him, and he struggled to find his thoughts through the thickening want rushing his veins. “Thank you.”

Harry nodded. He spoke next in the same quiet whisper Draco had used earlier, his free hand reaching for the knot of Draco’s tie. “You’re welcome. We should’ve gotten you one back when you graduated, but.” Harry’s thumb wandered over the dip in the fabric and brushed against the skin above Draco’s collar. Another breath, and the finger pressed further before dipping slightly into the space between shirt and skin. 

“Some things are worth waiting for, yeah?”

Harry’s eyes flickered to Draco’s before he tugged on the soft fabric, nudging Draco slightly closer. Slowly, so slowly, Harry bent forward, his lips brushing first the left corner of Draco’s mouth, then the right, before pressing fully and firmly against him.

Oh. For all his moments of weakness, the brief ones he had allowed himself to imagine this, Draco had just as firmly convinced himself it could not ever occur. A distant, somewhat broken sound echoed between them, and Harry pulled back, his glasses crooked on his nose. Draco frowned at him, his hands rising up to frame either side of Harry’s face before the other man could get too far. The contact brushed back the draw between Harry’s eyebrows. 

“So I didn’t make it up?” He traced the curve of Harry’s cheek, nestled beneath his glasses. His voice left him whisper soft. 

“Make what up?” 

Draco pressed their foreheads close, his eyes drifting shut. “This. I was so sure that you’d never… I’ve tried to be a realist about things. Our prospects. And I’ve had a theory actually.” 

“Do you?” A playful tone was edging into Harry’s voice, as one hand explored along the full inside of Draco’s collar: left, then right. “Let’s hear it.” 

Draco indulged in the need to swallow as Harry’s thumb avoided his Adam’s apple and brushed along his clavicle instead. The shudder passing through him was obvious. 

“You see, I think a person only gets access to… to…” Harry’s free hand had slid down, tugging the tie back and forth to loosen its tongue. “To so much happiness and—” 

“Go on.” Harry tossed the tie aside (and more carefully, the suitcase) to address Draco’s waistcoat next, articulating each button out and through its buttonhole. “I’m listening.” 

“Right.” Draco forced his attention away from his undressing to look up at the ceiling. Only Harry seemingly took the stretch of his neck as an invitation to trace the line of his pulse with his tongue. Draco stuttered as spoke: “So the theory is, one person is… is only entitled to, _Merlin_.” 

Draco let Harry press him back against the couch and watched in disbelief as Harry sat astride him. The squeezing heat between his thighs, the promising hardness matching his own, fluttered Draco’s eyes closed, his head back against the couch. 

“Go on then.” Harry slid his hands below the waistcoat to spread it apart. His hands grasped and curled around Draco’s waist, thumbs tracing lower. “A person’s only entitled to?” 

Un-fucking-believable. Draco glared up at him, even as his hips arched up and stuttered at further contact. “So much happiness. It’s a quota, per person, and I—” 

Draco snagged at the fingers tugging his shirt out of his trousers. The teasing look dropped from Harry’s face at whatever he saw when he looked up. 

“Being alive. Free. Having friends. Being your friend. I thought I couldn’t ever get more happiness than that.” 

After a few moments, taking care, Harry reached to run a hand through Draco’s hair. “That’s more elaborate than my excuse.” 

Draco let his eyes slide shut again as he leaned into the touch. _Please._ “Mm,” he said aloud. Words were hard to find. “And what is that?” 

Harry spoke into his ear, the warm breath curling down Draco’s neck as Harry slotted them chest to chest. “I’m quite thick, I’m told. When it comes to feelings. According to everyone who realized before I did.” He drew the edge of Draco’s ear between his teeth and pulled. “But I’m a quick study.” 

Draco groaned, allowing his hands to roam freely, finally, over the expanse of Harry’s shoulders, the softness of his nape, the warm, forbidden skin of his lower back beneath his shirt. “Hopefully not too quick,” he got out, mouth exploring each inch he uncovered. If he could have this, if the world really wouldn’t burn with it, he would savour every moment he got. 

And Harry, in that breathy near-whimper Draco’d always hoped for, answered: “I can think of one way to find out.” 

So Draco did.

**Author's Note:**

> ⛄ This work is part of the H/D Mistletoe winter gift exchange. If you enjoyed it, spread the love by leaving the author a kudos and a comment, and consider reblogging the fest tumblr post [here](https://gwbexchange.tumblr.com/post/641404744980627457/the-last-bachelors-eve-author-anonymous-for). ❄️


End file.
